《Bellator》


 Prologue: I am Bellator

    I am Bellator.


    Or, at least, a Bellator; a steam-driven locomotive, propelled on two legs, and motivated by a simple, clockwork differential engine narrowly designed for war.


    A strange thing it is then, to expect articulate thought from such an engine. One such thought being--¡±I am Bellator.¡± Nonetheless, I have thought it. And it is true.


    I''m not exactly sure when I became aware of my steam-driven existence. Only that, at some point; I realized that I was no longer human.


    Yes, human.


    Because I remember being human.


    I remember having oatmeal for breaks fast; and kissing my wife before taking my kids to school on my way to work. I remember work. I was a businessman of some sort--suit and tie and a nine-to-five work day. I don''t remember what I was selling though, only the times I stood in front of a glaring screen and the old boys club I eventually became a part of as I rose up the ranks. I remember the Friday night drinks at work, the complaints, the dejection at all too impossible to meet quotas, and the thrill of getting that month-end bonus; those slick, chrome-plated, automatic wristwatches. God, do I remember the watches.


    And my wife''s blow jobs. I especially miss her fucking blow jobs.


    But now I''m here, adrift in the ennui of my own idle thoughts. Waiting for that next waking moment of utter panic, rage, and confusion.Stolen story; please report.


    I''ve started to get better though, the more waking moments I had. I even remember some of them, in a somewhat shattered mosaic of images utterly devoid of context or continuity.


    I remember a reckless young man, black of hair and twitchy with guns, push me into the midst of three rampaging bellatores. I''m not entirely sure what he was trying to do, but from the taste of panic and surge of adrenaline in his magic--I''m not sure if he was trying to do anything at all. That shard ended right where it started.


    I remember a waif, with braided, hazel-hued locks, maneuver me square into the flank of a barreling behemoth. Her magic was sweetest to me, confident and precise, nudging me onward in all the right places, instilling my sword with urgency as the chopper it held swung down with finality on the neck of the much too eager jack. I tasted her swell of pride too, felt her thrill and ecstasy in a job well done. Had she maintained her focus on me just a little while longer, I might have gotten a better resonance with that tinge of taint and hurt in the deep seams of her magic. It was a mystery to me, a curious matter I wanted to explore, but the shard broke before I could dig any deeper. I think she felt me prod then. There was a hint of surprise in her magic, right before she shut me down.


    There were a few more that I could picture out quite clearly and distinctly, some kid with frazzled red hair, a balding black guy, and a sweet vixen of a red-head whose magic practically sizzled and sparkled when she woke me.


    She kept me awake the longest after her run. That was when I had the hint, just a hint, that maybe this magical focus of theirs wasn''t a one-way street to begin with. And just like the steely eyed waif from before, she shut me down right before I could even reach anywhere near her magic.


    I was disappointed, but patient. I could afford to wait. Not much else to do here; and thanks to my current artificial coil, I no longer have the luxury of hormones signaling boredom or frustration. And without the hormones, without the signals of time, a hundred years might have already passed and I''d be none the wiser.


    Inevitably, another young thing will wake me. And when they do...

 Chapter I

    <h1 align="center">Chapter I</h1>


    <h2>Scene I.</h2>


    Wick followed in the wake of the blue-coated masses. On his own, he hadn¡¯t expected to find his way around this fortress-within-a-fortress as well as he already did. Of course, the streets and landmarks pretty much explained themselves, college brochures notwithstanding.


    He seemed to just breeze past the labyrinthine hedges, the Doric colonnades, the sculpted gardens and swan ponds to find Main Field. The Main Field.


    Named Campus Imperator on his brochure¡¯s stylized map, he couldn¡¯t help but gawk at its signature landmark, a gigantic image of Jupiter Triumphant in painted marble.


    It looked that big on the map, but Wick chalked that up to exaggeration, to emphasis; to signal the core center of these our hallowed institutions. But, no. Common sense be damned. Jupiter was just that big.


    The god dwarfed even those domed vaults and Venetian palaces that surrounded Campus Imperator. Granted, it stood on high foundation, a pedestal fashioned from polished granite in gold accent, but even without the trapezoid mount the highest perch here present came only to waist height of the stone monstrosity. Its very pose draped Wick with shadow on approach. The young man couldn¡¯t help but follow the masculine lines up to the heavens it reached for with an outstretched hand, while the other cradled its toga praetexta. And its eyes. Its glinting, blue eyes; they drilled into Wick¡¯s own.


    Jupiter¡¯s gazed burned a hole right through Wick¡¯s skull and made its demands clear and unambiguous, ¡°Excelsior.¡± It laid out the lines of destiny that Wick must toe, ¡°Excelsior.¡± There would be no denial, no defiance, no excuses brooked, ¡°Excelsior.¡±


    Helpless, Wick bowed his head and passed under the yoke of the shadow of the colossus.


    ¡°Hadriana Iolos,¡± a buzz set upon the milling masses. Wick caught the name and wondered, who?


    The blue-coats began to coalesce and collect, an aura of familiarity emanating from strangers and old friends finding each other. In the case of Hadriana, this name Wick just heard, a parting of the big blue sea seemed to point her out. He just couldn¡¯t get a clear enough view, however, given his short stature and less than healthy eyesight. And as the flux pulled him in and along the currents of walking masses, he lost whatever chance he had at that. Instead, the chorus of voices answered his questions for him.


    ¡°Who?¡± someone asked.


    ¡°You know, the girl who aced the ORACLE?¡±


    ¡°You can ace the ORACLE? How? Thought that wasn¡¯t the point.¡±


    ¡°Well, apparently you can¡ªand she did.¡±


    ¡°How though?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s an Iolos¡ªof the House Iulus. How do you think?¡±


    ¡°Blood win?¡± it scoffed.


    ¡°No, I wouldn¡¯t say that. Unfair to say that.¡± The voice continued, ¡°But blood does have a tendency to show itself, especially when you¡¯re House Iulus. Especially when Blood Iulus won¡¯t be ignored.¡±


    House Iulus. Who hadn¡¯t heard of House Iulus? Certainly not Wick. Even on the farthest frontier farm-world from which Wick grew up, he knew of House Iulus. House Iulus seeded his world, conquered and kicked out the Reichsmen so his father could have a tract of land to settle and colonize. Thankful wasn¡¯t enough of a word for the kind of gratitude his people had for House Iulus.


    Caught in the drift of his own thoughts, his body pulled further into the growing stream of fresh, new, and excited faces. More bodies converged on Campus Imperator, blowing the gentle brook up into a rush as the hour of assembly approached. The Grand Magister was set to address all of the new students today, and no one wanted the taint of tardiness on their record. And as the hundreds grew into thousands, Wick¡¯s reptilian unconscious wondered how they would all fit into what seemed to be such an ordinary administrative building.


    The Caesarion Building, however, would not be scoffed at.


    It felt and looked bigger on the inside. Much, much bigger than its ordinary Neo-classical facade let on. New students, like Wick, had only the helpful signs and placards to usher them along the polished and shining corridors. Joyful enthusiasm and animated conversation muffled the sharp echoes of their steps, courtesy of the high vaulted ceilings and the incredible width of the passages.


    The Solarium, they called it; this room written down on their schedules. This they found at the confluence of three corridors and at the far end of an ante-room the size of a small barony¡¯s manse. Here, past two imperious, cathedral doors, did they find themselves welcomed into another manicured garden. Beneath a clear, glass, geodesic dome; sitting on an unimpeded view of the Elysian skyline, a landscaped amphitheater had been carved into the very rock of a cliff¡¯s edge.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Wick knew the founders liked to build on high ground; he just didn¡¯t expect them to be this dramatic about it.


    It took a while for him to find a seat, apologizing and excusing himself, bouncing from one tier to another as they filled before he could even claim a right to his space. Things would have gone a lot faster and smoother for him, had it not been for the silent intensity commanding most of his attention.


    Silhouetted against the light of the shining city, a sharp-edged tower stood statuesque with its back to the students, gazing with rapturous intent upon Elysia. Wick could understand its enthrallment. Through those massive, crystal blast panes he could see a glimpse of it himself. And what little he saw entranced him just as much as the figure disturbed him.


    When finally he found his place to a far corner at the back, he managed a better view of the stage below, a better scale of this silent and solitary spectacle. Fifteen feet, he estimated. The figure stood at about fifteen feet in height with a body structure imposing enough to command everyone¡¯s attention even at a distance. That conversation died down to whispered contrivances indicated just the exact kind of atmosphere this someone inspired. And it certainly was a someone. Just not someone human in the least.


    <h2>Scene II.</h2>


    When everyone had settled into place, the seats filled and the students cornered into a sort of troubled patience, only then did the humanoid break Elysia¡¯s spell to retreat away from the windows. Turning about, stepping forward to face the students in the fullness of his might while draped in shadow cast against the light, Wick gasped inward. Thus before them, the student body, spake an Empyrean.


    Crystalline skin of cerulean hue. Eyes afire with white light. Hair a curious range of somber gray to pitch darkness. An almost horn-like foreheads stretched out into a wide angular frame that gave its features an even more inverted triangle look. Wick identified all these traits and more prototypical of the alien race that had miraculously lifted humanity from the ashes of its own self-destruction. And to see this Empyrean robed in the panoply of his station complemented by the official garments of a high-ranking Republican Magister, his fascination marched beyond mere curiosity. Wick beheld history with his own eyes and it had struck him dumb.


    ¡°Yo, kid,¡± a young man next to him said.


    No reply.


    ¡°Kid,¡± again the young man tried to catch his attention.


    And again it failed.


    Scoffing at a third attempt, the young man simply lifted Wick¡¯s dropped jaw shut, and the latter didn¡¯t even notice.


    ¡°Call me Gus, by the way,¡± he said. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±


    The Empyrean scanned the tiers, eyes roaming and freezing hapless student in place with its cold gaze. A troubled wrinkle seemed to afflict its brow. When it spoke, it did not speak with the voice of angels as Wick had imagined it.


    ¡°Almyra,¡± the Empyrean called, ¡°We are missing some cadets.¡±


    The voice came from a scale of depth alien to the human ear, of a tone and modulation that might only be registered as a filtered overlap of the tenor and baritone scales but with mineral-like notes and reverberations that no human throat could utter. It did not sound real, natural, or even organic, and failed to put any of the students at ease.


    A witch¡¯s hat rose up from down below. Beneath it, a woman getting along in life checked the students present against a sort of brass slate that clicked and clacked in her hands.


    ¡°I see three empty seats, Almyra.¡± The Empyrean seemed patient enough to point out the gap in the tiers.


    ¡°Forgive me, Lord Geste,¡± said the woman in the witch¡¯s hat. The slightest touch of pressure rebuffed, she assured him that¡ª¡°Facial recognition takes time. My daemon shall identify the truants presently.¡±


    ¡°We wait.¡±Was it an order or mere fact, Wick didn¡¯t know. He had since ceased his awestruck childishness.


    But before the situation could grow more uncomfortable, three lads burst in through the hardwood doors. A freckled red head gasping for air. A pale boy shaking in his boots and about to drop on a knee. And a rather huge, bull of a chap scratching his head apologetically.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± said Lord Geste, a hint of thunder in his voice and lightning in his eyes, undetectable if not for the subsonic goosebumps that then crawled up everyone¡¯s spine. ¡°To your places. We are about to begin.¡±


    ¡°Lord Magister,¡± Almyra said, clearing her throat rather loudly to call his attention. ¡°I do believe these three have recused themselves, such as they have missed their first day of tuition in arriving late to your assembly.¡±


    The Lord Magister gave them, the shuffling three, such a withering of looks that those students closest to them pulled away as if such things were contagious.


    ¡°How?¡± he said, asking the simplest question.


    ¡°Well, they¡¯ve arrived late to the assembly, sine qua non for their entry as cadets in the Republican Legions.¡±


    ¡°I missed three cadets before I could begin my address, Almyra.¡± The thunder in his voice began to strain against its apparent placidity. ¡°Perhaps your daemon could now help us identify who these truant cadets were?¡±


    ¡°Ah, well,¡± she started. ¡°Facial recognition has yet to run a complete cross reference, my lord. The guilty parties, however, have indubitably prese--¡±


    ¡°You have failed to identify our three missing cadets before I could begin my address, correct?¡±


    She hesitated. She wanted to hazard an answer, but the Lord Magister had made his decision.


    ¡°Benjamin Garrison. Elijah Crosse. Maxion Lucas. To your places, please, gentlemen. We begin.¡±


    Beaten, but undefeated, Almyra returned to her seat, her brass doohickey removed from sight. The Lord Magister, now relaxed and satisfied that he could get on with it, released everyone else from similar discomforts. His gaze had lost its flash, and his stature softened. He stretched a thin smile with his lips and began his address to the first general assembly of new cadets.


    ¡°Greetings, cadets.


    ¡°My name is Markurian III Geste, Grand Magister in Corporem Astra to the Third Republic of Elysium.


    ¡°And from this day forth¡­


    ¡°I am your Lord and Master.¡±

 Intermission I

    <h1 align="center">Intermission I</h1>


    A spark! A singular white flash coursed hot like lightning.


    I stretched, warming abstract sinews of thought and time. Right when the familiar din and hum of magic brought my engines to life, right when the rush and surge of hydraulics hissed at the corners of my iron coil, I took a moment to stretch and collect myself.


    My moment had come.


    I narrowed my focus to a pin¡¯s point, concentrating on the click and clack of my clockwork, using it to find my pace. Thus anchored, I braced against the red tide.


    Panic. Rage. Confusion. These I recognized and expected¡ªthe familiar weave by which magics sought mastery of me. Having no mortal humors of my own, they found easy purchase where my heart should be. Thus overwhelmed and overridden, I would then fall to various degrees of submission¡ªdependent, I believe, on the raw talent and power of the magic-user hoping to drive me.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    So when I steeled my mind to maintain its equanimity, I stumbled.


    No rage. No panic. No confusion. No rushing tide to stem and break.


    Instead, I tasted resignation¡ªa signal so weak it had no character. It had merely ignited me, activated my charge and reconnected my sensors and limbs to my mind. Hazy, yellow lensed apertures brought to life, I just about jumped from my haunches and wheeled to find my driver. In my rush, I forgot to square my legs and nearly tipped over.


    Top heavy with short, stumpy legs, what asshole designed me? That I managed to land my tonnage on an outstretched arm and not on the wisp of a boy beneath me was nothing short of a miracle.


    Panic. I tasted panic¡ªbut a different kind of panic. It tasted nothing like the fiery chaos from the others. No. This one¡ªthis one tasted of bone chilling fear, of the kind of helpless inaction that left you peeing your pants, staring into the glare of the lamps right before the car hit you.


    Wait, was it the boy? Had I almost crushed my driver to death?


    I looked the boy over and wondered. The thin whistle of a magical tug seemed to emanate from this boy, it''s ping and din echoing and pulsing from this rather puny vessel. Was it a boy or a mouse?


    I couldn''t help but ask, my engines growling and gears grinding, "How old are you boy?"


    His staring, dull gray eyes shot wide open; and his chest heaved sudden and held.


    I knew he heard me. Without even trying, I had plucked a note on his magical guitar and he heard my song.


    "You can hear me," I said. "You can hear me."

 Chapter II

    <h1 align="center">Chapter II</h1>


    <h2>Scene I.</h2>


    Lord Geste took three hours to justify war at an age of unprecedented abundance. Or, at least, it must have been three hours. It sure felt like three long hours. Gus forgot his watch so he couldn¡¯t know. His daemon did, though, but he wasn¡¯t keen on daemons.


    Looking at the blank stares and glazed looks all around him, he was right not to. The only people to stay conscious and present, he could could count on one hand. Which, to him, meant that most of what Lord Geste had to say was lost on minds adrift in a sea of daemonic distraction. And, that those who did pay attention, paid a little too much attention. Which was worse.


    Like that girl.


    Lord Geste had asked a non-rhetorical question then. He¡¯d actually wanted an answer and she was the only one to give it. Or, at least, paid enough attention to point out the obvious. The kid next to him was about to as well, but Gus shut him down. Poor kid was about to dork up his first day here. The short-stack would have enough problems already with his baby fat and acne. No need to compound it with an eager-beaver bullseye on his back.


    As for the girl, Gus forgot her name but not the twist of her face, and certainly not her voice and the colors that came of it. Gus could do that, you see. One of the few reasons why he even ended up here in the first place: seeing colors others don¡¯t. And her colors dripped bloody red and black when she named that needle-craft.


    And when Lord Geste told them what happened to Norregh, Gus put two and two together. Norregh, at least a good chunk of it, got saturated before Republican forces could come in and recover orbital superiority. And she, in all probability, might have been on the wrong end of a kinetic payload dropping down from the heavens at a mass and velocity just shy of a deep impact meteor.


    Gods, petty and great, fucked and favored; Gus found himself trapped in a prison with inmates either damaged or detached and he had no way out.


    Fuck.


    <h2>Scene II.</h2>


    His belly ached and grumbled, prompting a draw at the saltine crackers he squared in a pocket before coming here. General assemblies had a tendency to draw themselves out, and Gus had little faith in succinct ceremony.


    ¡°Lorr, you hungry?¡± he asked the young man seated on the other side of him.


    Lorr nodded, so Gus snapped his flakes in threes. Together they crunched on crackers as quietly as they could.


    Gus glanced at the short-stack next to him offered him the last third. Kid shook his head. Lorr finished the last of the salty flat bread.


    The Geste-talk had just about wrapped up anyway, capped by a buzz of relieved chatter and woken starts as students slowly came to their senses. The assistant-commander, Almyra, had some closing statements to make before dismissing them: something about finding your legionary barracks and reporting to your immediate superior officer at 1600 hours. Nothing of consequence, as far as Gus¡¯s ears could make of it.


    He¡¯d already done those things anyway, per advice on his boot kit.


    ¡°Plans, Gus?¡± Lorr asked as they both made their way out of the amphitheater.


    ¡°Not sure. You?¡±


    ¡°Was hoping we could just go back to barracks.¡± Lorr sounded bored and labored. Probably working to smooth the kinks out of sitting for hours. ¡°Maybe just play cards and wait for dinner.¡±


    ¡°We have an entire day to ourselves before they drop full military stricture on us, and you want to play cards until dinner?¡±


    ¡°You got a better idea?¡±


    ¡°How about we look around?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s there to see?¡±


    ¡°Gardens, apparently. Lots and lots of manicured horticulture.¡±


    ¡°How about we not?¡± The look Lorr gave him edged on exasperation. ¡°There really isn¡¯t much to see here. I mean, have a look at the map again. What have you got there that¡¯s actually interesting?¡±


    Gus made a show of looking. He¡¯d probably stared at it a hundred times before, as he tried to find the exits, but of course found only gatehouses there. Gatehouses, and guardhouses, and armories, and checkpoints. Their map and pamphlet offered scarce interest, a point he shared with Lorr but kept to himself.


    What would they do and where would they go? The Observatories? The Towers? The Scildbol Fields? The Gymnasiums? The Hangars and Armories? How about they gawk at the Baroque-style architecture? Or, how about they pay the corpse garden a visit? Lorr must be wondering about that, having an entire hectare of land specifically designated as the corpse garden. Seemed to be the only place here that didn¡¯t belong. Hell, even the swathes of Drill Grounds¡ªmountain, forest, jungle, trench, and urban¡ªpaled in comparison to that. A corpse garden, what the hell is a corpse garden?


    As they argued down a stone walkway, an odd thing caught at the corner of Gus¡¯s eye.


    The short-stack.


    Gus turned his head for a better look, and he did find the short stack. He stopped, and wondered. There the short stack stood, in the shadow of a vending machine, looking up to it in stillness as if wanting for an explanation.


    ¡°Mind if we take a detour, Lorr?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Lorr must have followed his eyes. He nodded and said, ¡°Sure.¡±


    <h2>Scene III.</h2>


    Short-stack jumped at the click of their heels. That surprised Gus. Short-stack actually jumped on their approach. Granted, they approached from a blind spot, but that hardly counted as sneaking up on someone or taking someone by surprise. If such had been their intend, why would they even bother declaring themselves?If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Hey, short-stack, need some help there?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± short-stack said. The obvious shades of yellow and green to his words ticked all the wrong boxes for Gus¡ªas far as first impressions went. But, it wasn¡¯t like he really got to know the kid during Geste-talk anyhow. Still, he marked it unusual without going so far as to file it under concerning.


    ¡°The vending machine,¡± Gus pointed out, ¡°You having some trouble with it?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Yeah. This, the machine.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the machine. You having some trouble with it, or what?¡±


    ¡°Oh, uh, hmm--¡±Short-stack flushed, just a little bit, and turned back to the machine. His eyes darted to and fro, a last ditch effort to find whatever it was he thought could help him save face here. Too little, too late.


    ¡°Looking for something, kid?¡±


    The risen indignation that came in a puff of hot steam also took Gus by surprise. He didn¡¯t expect short-stuck to wheel and snap on him.


    ¡°Quit calling me short-stack, and quit calling me kid. I have a name, and despite my stature, I¡¯m pretty sure you¡¯re no older than me by a couple of months.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s got you there, buddy,¡± Lorr said, chuckling.


    Gus blinked, before he gave Lorr the stink-eye; but, Lorr had the right of it. He had been a little too bold and a little to free with his manners. So he raised his hands in defeat and made a gesture at backing down. Besides, he had to hand it to the kid. Kid knew when to stand up for himself, and how. The yellows and greens had vanished too, replaced by bright reds and oranges. Kid probably just had strong feelings against surprises¡ªor, at least, being being taken by surprise.


    ¡°Easy,¡± Gus said. ¡°I¡¯m sure you do have a perfectly good name, and that I had no right to take that away from you by giving you a new one. So, how about we reset and do this square and level? How¡¯s about we introduce ourselves like proper lads, yeah?¡±


    Short-stack frowned, but seemed amenable. He nodded and said, ¡°Alright. Sure. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Alright, well. My name is Korregus, but you can call me Gus. This, chiseled giant of an oaf, here next to me is Loredus. You can call him Lorr.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± Lorr said, adding, ¡°If I had a hat, I¡¯d tip it.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s about we scrounge you a hat? Eh, Lorr?¡±


    Giving the kid the respect he deserved seemed the right of it. He soon relaxed and fancied a small smile. Good enough, by Gus¡¯s books.


    ¡°I¡¯d introduced myself earlier, during Geste-talk, but you seemed occupied. You must not have noticed,¡± Gus said.


    ¡°Oh, I do apologize. I didn¡¯t realize we met at the talk. How did we meet, exactly? I can¡¯t seem to remember.¡±


    ¡°Well, must have been your first time to see an Empyrean, yes? I gathered as much, being that I sat next to you. You did seem wholly fascinated by our Lord Magister.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, yes. Yes. I do apologize. I didn¡¯t realize. I certainly didn¡¯t. I should have been more aware. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    ¡°No matter, squire. Water under the bridge. So, how might my brother and I assist you in operating this newfangled machine here they call a vendor?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Oh, right!¡± The pall vanished. The flush returned.


    Gus hated to needle, but he couldn¡¯t help but draw a bit of perverse pleasure from it. A tickle to his humors, he thought, seeing the kid reduced to bashfulness right after his rather strong showing of self-respect.


    ¡°Well, first off, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wycglaf Mercer, but you can call me Wick.¡± Turning back to the vending machine, he said, ¡°Secondly, I can¡¯t seem to find a coin slot or bill acceptor.¡±


    Without Wick¡¯s noticing it, Gus and Lorr shared a frown.


    They would have gotten along in silence, but Gus decided to ask, ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean why?¡±


    ¡°Why would you be looking for a coin slot?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯d like a drink. And, I¡¯d like to pay for my drink.¡±


    Again, Gus and Lorr shared a look.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Frustrated, Wick sighed before blurting out, ¡°What do you mean why?¡±


    ¡°Why would you be paying?¡±


    ¡°Well, why wouldn¡¯t I be paying?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s free.¡±


    <h2>Scene IV.</h2>


    It took a moment for things to register. Wick¡¯s frown did eventually soften and relax from confusion to wide-eyed fascination. But, even as the stuff sunk in, they lead only to more questions.


    ¡°Is everything free?¡± Wick had asked, which, just further took Gus and Lorr aback. Wick even said, further, ¡°Is this like a rationing policy for cadets? A matter of discipline? Or is everything here regimented and heavily monitored for peak nutritional performance and such?¡±


    Gus and Lorr shook their heads, and sort of taken on a silence of disbelief.


    ¡°No, not that. It¡¯s just¡ªit¡¯s just free,¡± Lorr said and more, but Gus cut him off with a gentle hand on his arm.


    ¡°Where you from, Wick?¡±


    Short-stack frown, unsure what that had to do with anything. He asked, ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because, me and Lorr here are came over from Lockeswood. Provincial, I know, but it¡¯s been a good home to the two of us. All part of getting to know each other.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, I gated over direct from Alba Nova. It¡¯s a beautiful place, really. Spare, but breathtaking in that sort of bleak, and stark contrast of colors.¡±


    ¡°Alba Nova,¡± Gus said, attempting to hazard a guess but couldn¡¯t. ¡°Familiar. I feel like I¡¯ve heard of it before. Mind refreshing my memory for me, squire?¡±


    ¡°Ah, alright. Well, to start, it¡¯s in the Arcturian system. One of Kolverinne¡¯s moons. Shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise, really. We¡¯ve only just been a part of the commonwealth for about a quarter of a century. Haven¡¯t really made a mark on the Republican Gazette, you see. At least, not yet.¡±


    A relatively new colony. Which meant, to Gus and Lorr, that Wick hadn¡¯t yet transitioned to Elysium¡¯s way of doing things: modes of exchange being the sore point of contention here.


    ¡°Well, what did you use for currency at Alba Nova, Wick?¡±


    ¡°Currency?¡± Wick quickly added, ¡°You mean money?¡±


    ¡°Yes, money.¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t tell me my money¡¯s no good here. We went through great lengths to find what Republican tender we could for my stay here. And besides, I thought everyone here was on scholarship.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we are. We are. No worries on that point. We are all on the Republic¡¯s books, square and level. It¡¯s just that, well--¡±


    Lorr jumped in, rather impatiently, ¡°We haven¡¯t used legal tender since the redemption Wick.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, that,¡± Gus said with a side of stink-eye. ¡°Not to say that your money¡¯s no good here, Wick. Just that, we don¡¯t really use it here.¡±


    ¡°Then how do you get things? Like, how do I get what my money¡¯s worth without money?¡±


    ¡°Well, like most things in the Republic, by committee. And when the committee¡¯s done with what it¡¯s set out to do, the daemons follow.¡±


    Dubious. Wick looked dubious, but he seemed to follow. He then asked, ¡°So, instead of money, we just use daemons.¡±


    ¡°Yes, daemons.¡±


    ¡°Oh, alright. Daemons.¡±


    Uncomfortable silence followed.


    Lorr sighed, gave Gus a look, and pushed him into the machine, ¡°I¡¯d like a soda, Gus. Please.¡±


    Acquiescing in silence, Gus set out to show Wick the ropes.


    An explosion!


    They felt it before they heard, raising their hairs on end.


    They had just woken up Gus¡¯s daemon when the air changed, sudden and violent. Their tongues tasted lemons and their nostrils stung from sharp notes of chlorine. The rush of air that followed sizzled against their skin, as if the static had been caught dazed and confused when agitated into action. The thunder came seconds later, loud and violent¡ªlike an overloaded transformer banging metal against metal.


    More bursts followed in quick succession. Screams greeted them. Gunfire answered.


    The trio ran for the quad to see. There, on the campus, in bright, sparkling balls of ozone, soldiers in powered armor had just blinked into existence.


    ¡°Aw, nuts.¡± Gus said, putting voice to everyone¡¯s surprise.